


moving through empty spaces

by beanarie, hophophop



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:52:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2906573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie/pseuds/beanarie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/pseuds/hophophop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>following <a href="http://beanarie.tumblr.com/post/84318332478/amindamazed-beanarie-rubberglue">a discussion</a> about Sherlock comforting Joan despite whatever's going on in his life. originally posted on tumblr.</p>
    </blockquote>





	moving through empty spaces

**Author's Note:**

> following [a discussion](http://beanarie.tumblr.com/post/84318332478/amindamazed-beanarie-rubberglue) about Sherlock comforting Joan despite whatever's going on in his life. originally posted on tumblr.

Joan drifts downstairs at three am. There’s no case, but she hasn’t slept right since she was abducted. And she knows from experience there’s nothing to do but wait it out. When Sherlock comes down to the kitchen, he sees her at the table, the book open to the middle.

She stares pointedly at those ten cubic inches of empty space, willing him to explain why the book was moved. She hasn’t touched that volume since Moran crept into their brownstone. Seeing it on the shelf off by a fraction of an inch, just after what happened, it feels significant.

He sighs. "It was something. But I dealt with it."

"Sherlock-"

“ _Watson_.” Her instincts tell her to push more, but while taking much longer than usual to decide on the words, she realizes she isn't up for this conversation.

"Tea?" he offers, and he mentions the drowsy time recipe she tried to give him after he stayed up for days to save that kidnapped girl. He’s gotten quite adept at brewing Chinese herbs, if he does say so himself. When Joan declines, he asks if she wants to go observe native New York bats in their own habitat.

And of course she does.

Sherlock wears the same shoes he always wears, with sturdy soles he’s scraped worse than guano off before. She digs out an old pair of sneakers from the back of her closet and pulls on the threadbare hoodie she wore when she repainted her old apartment. Sitting on her bed to tie the laces, she pauses to count. Eight years. The pastel colors are muted in the room’s dim light, and it’s easier to find them by touch, stiff patches on the soft worn cloth, almost like flannel now. She’s startled to realize she can’t recall what color she painted the bathroom then. Was it yellow before or after? No pastels this time.

"Reconsidering?" She turns to look over her shoulder at Sherlock framed by the door jamb, her coat dangling from his hand, and shakes her head.

"No," she says, standing up. "Is it that cold out? I don’t want to get whatever’s died and dried up in a belfry all over my coat."

He frowns down at it, gives it a little shake. “You don’t go indoors to find bats at night, Watson. I can’t guarantee your garments will remain unsullied, but if desiccated rodent remains are your only concern—”

Her breath catches, and she turns away from him, willing the tears not to fall. She hates the unpredictability most of all, not knowing what might set it off, and presses her palms against her eyes. It takes a moment before she realizes why the gesture seems familiar. She pulls in a deep breath and slides her hands back smoothing her hair and fisting it into a pony tail before letting it go. Still facing away from him, she bends down to turn off the bedside lamp and releases a sigh. In the dark room with the hallway light behind, she’s relieved she can’t see the expression on his face as he watches her approach. Before she can raise her hand to take her coat from him, he shakes it out and silently holds it up for her to slip on with his help.

It’s about four-thirty. She has no idea what she’s stepping on or over. She was using the flashlight app on her phone, but for the sake of the battery (she never goes past thirty percent when she doesn’t know when she’ll be able to charge it again), she slipped it back in her coat pocket for a while. Instead of looking where she’s going, she’s doing a passable job of finding obstacles by listening to Sherlock’s footsteps just ahead of her.

He hasn’t spoken for at least ten minutes, and neither has she. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, exactly. It’s just that knowing it won’t last causes a subtle yet unwelcome sense of anticipation that she can’t help wanting to dispel. “It’s not the going to sleep part, you know?” she says, keeping her voice low. She hasn’t forgotten where they are. “It’s the waking up.

"I get to that part of the cycle when you’re half-aware and I just…" She pauses in place. Sherlock stops moving so abruptly she imagines a breeze from the air he displaced. "I’m there all over again, groggy and drugged and in a strange place, and angry at myself for being so stupid and letting someone get the jump on me. I get up like I’m on springs, no matter what time it is or how long I was asleep. It could have been a few minutes or a few hours."

She takes in a shuddering breath. “And there’s no quick fix for that. You can’t just avoid waking up for a while.”

Something bumps up against her hand, then his palm slots against hers and he gives her fingers a squeeze. Her throat burns as she leans to the side, touching her forehead to his shoulder. Nature, squeaking and hooting overhead, doesn’t care that she’s not being strong.


End file.
